


Going Soft

by Diogenes



Category: Kim Possible (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diogenes/pseuds/Diogenes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shego, whiskey, an old friend, and some introspection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Soft

**Author's Note:**

> Kim Possible and associated characters are the property of Disney. The character of Eddie was created by sPs and is used with permission. Thanks to Ffordesoon for an excellent editing job. Originally posted to FFN in 2010.

"A double of Jack, rocks," Shego growled as she flopped onto the barstool. With a baleful look at the bartender, an unshaven and slightly overweight man in a stained shirt, the ex-thief rested her elbows on the Crow's well pitted formica bartop. Loud and atonal music, blaring from speakers mounted in shadowed corners, exacerbated her growing headache. Never mind, the booze would fix that. She kneaded her temples with her thumbs, wallowing in her black mood.

She looked around the dark room, eyes sliding over the other patrons, not really paying them any attention. A few regulars, a couple of guys she didn't know. Probably just some sad bastards drinking their night away, anyway. You didn't come to a dive bar to do anything else.

Her drink arrived, the amber liquid sloshing as it was placed none-too-gently on the bar.

"Twelve bucks," the bartender said. Shego looked up at the him and frowned.

"Put it on my tab."

The bartender sighed petulantly. "You're gonna have to pay that off eventually, lady," he said, crossing his rather thick arms in a gesture undoubtedly meant to look intimidating.

She gave him an arch look. "Yeah, but not tonight." The bartender sighed again and wandered off, grumbling something about goddamn customers and their goddamn problems, and didn't he have a bar to run, and didn't he need to pay his rent, and Shego tuned him out too. She drained her drink in one go, wincing at the flavor. Jack was a terrible whiskey, but it was the best this place had. No Black Label at the Crow. Hell, no scotch of any kind. Lovely place. She snorted. She wasn't here for the atmosphere, or for the company, or for the drink selection. She wasn't here to dance, or to sing, or to meet anyone.

Shego was here to get stinking drunk, drown her anger in booze, and try to forget the last three hours.

So when some bastard had the nerve to plop down beside her and go "Hey," all friendly-like, she had to restrain herself from lighting up and burning his face off. Instead, she settled for turning around sharply and snarling, "Do I  _look_  like I want anyone to–" only to be greeted by the widely grinning face of Eddie Griggs, one-time head henchman in Drakken's little "evil family". "Holy shit," she finished.

"Hey, boss," Eddie said levelly, taking a sip of his beer. "Long time, no see." Shego blinked, her momentary anger evaporating and leaving only the hard nugget in her chest that she was trying to drink away.

"You got that right," she said, putting down her empty glass with a  _thunk_. "What the hell are you doing in this hole?" She motioned for another drink, which the unsmiling bartender arrived with after some delay.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said. "This doesn't seem like your scene. I'd expect something a little classier, you know?" He laughed. "Long day at work. Professor Dementor isn't as easy as the Doc was, so sometimes I come here to unwind." Eddie took another drink of his beer. "So, what's your story?" Shego huffed and sipped her drink.

"Lady troubles," she said with a bitter laugh. Eddie smirked knowingly at her.

"One lady in particular, or just the entire gender?" He blinked. "Not counting yourself, I guess." Shego laughed and fiddled with her glass, watching the amber liquid slosh around a bit.

"One lady. Hey, you want the shock of your life?" Her voice was mischievous, anger abating for the moment. She could use a laugh, and telling Eddie about Princess would do for entertainment. Be nice to see a guy fall off his stool. "Guess who it is. I'll give you a hint: someone we know from working with Doctor D." Eddie snorted.

"Softball. It's Kim Possible, the Cheerleader," he said immediately, laughing.

"Wait, what?" She stared in open shock.

"Oh, sure," Eddie said, taking a swig of beer. "I mean, it's not like it wasn't obvious. 'S like, we all knew about you, and no straight girl wears cargo pants and combat boots. And the pet names? A little obvious, boss." It was Shego's turn to laugh.

"Yeah," she said sheepishly. "I guess. So I'm guessing everyone knew?" Eddie nodded.

"We had an office pool going amongst the henchmen. I ran it–too bad we returned all the money, I think Chambers would have taken it. He said it'd take about a year longer for you guys to hook up."

"Yeah," Shego allowed, "sounds about right. About six months after the invasion. She saw me at GJ straightening out my pardon, we got coffee. Things went from there."

"So there's trouble in paradise? What, she turn down your marriage proposal?" Shego shook her head, black mood quickly creeping back with the memory. She took another swig of whiskey, finishing the glass.

"Nah, nothing like that. We're not even that serious." She shook her head again, lip curling. "She and I know we don't love each other, but damn if she doesn't look good." Eddie nodded, a small grin on his face, and Shego shot him a smoldering look.

"What?" His voice was hurt, not scared. But then, the two of them had always gotten along. "A guy can look, even if he knows not to touch." Shego didn't look too mollified, and Eddie nodded to himself. It'd be like the boss to get territorial over someone she thought of as "hers," he mused. At least she wasn't staring murderously anymore. "Look," he said by way of a peace offering. "Lemme buy you another one of what you're drinking." He motioned to the bartender. "Another for the lady, Joe, and a refill for me."

Joe arrived shortly with the order, and Eddie handed him a few bills.

"So it ain't serious," he said after a few moments of relative silence, the music the only noise between them. "And yet you're  _here_." He waved his arm around, indicating the other patrons. Most of them looked similarly dejected, hunched over glasses of something in the red-tinted half-darkness. When the music paused, you could hear the buzzing of old neon. Shego took another gulp, feeling the warm glow that heralded future drunkenness.

"None of your business, Eddie," she said gruffly. He nodded. The henchman knew Shego, she'd talk when she wanted to.

"All right then, boss." He sipped at his beer until the silence got awkward, and he glanced over at Shego. "Hey, you enjoy bein' legit?"

Shego nodded slowly. "It isn't so bad. A little quiet, but I make do. And I'm not totally out of the game, I just keep a low profile. Just a few pieces of jewelry here and there, the occasional contract. But yeah, it's not bad." Eddie was biting his lip to keep from laughing. "What?" Shego asked, a bit of ire creeping back into her voice.

"Nothing. Just funny hearing you, rattling off small time stuff. Next you'll be telling me you do mail fraud for a bit of extra spending money."

"Shut your face, or I'll shut it for you. Haven't lost the fire, so watch your mouth," she replied, mock-serious. Eddie laughed, and she took another gulp of her drink. The conversation wandered onward, she filling him in on the major events of her life; he telling her the latest gossip on the underworld, and the buzz around Dementor's lair. The drinks piled up, and after a while Shego noticed a heat in her cheeks and a distinct fuzz around the edge of her vision. The bar had emptied out somewhat, and the clock read eleven-fifty. In the corner, a man with too much facial hair and a trucker hat sang quietly along with the song playing from the speakers. Some old country tune, sad and slow.

"So, you seein' anyone, Eddie?" He blinked. Shego's question had come somewhat out of the blue, she realized belatedly, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered too much at the moment, really. He shrugged.

"Nah," the henchman said at length. "Villainy inn't really the best way to meet girls." Shego snorted and shook her head.

"What was I, chopped liver?" Her tone was playfully irate, and Eddie snorted.

"No way, you were the Boss. Who could shoot fire from her hands, an' who was pretty obviously into fuckin' girls." He registered what he'd said a moment later, and looked abashed. "If you'll pardon my French. But seriously, nobody was gonna hit on you, even the dumb ones were too smart fer that." Shego felt her lips twist into a little grin.

"Yeah, I guess." It was true. Most women in villainy were at least bisexual. In a man's world, it helped to be seen as a man in your own right, and nothing said power to men like having piles of money, the ability to kill with ease, or the ability to get any woman in bed. Or all three. And a woman needed that obvious power, if she wanted to be taken seriously.

Shego pushed her latest empty glass away, lost in thought. With Kim, it wasn't about power, or image, or anything. Sure, competition, but it was about her. About them. Having fun, keeping each other company. Someone to come back to after an exhausting mission or a taxing theft. An equal.

"Why is it that when I have a good thing goin', I always screw it up?" Shego's voice broke the silence that she hadn't realized was there. Her voice was pitched low, huskier than usual from the drink, but Eddie heard.

"That came a bit outta nowhere, boss." He set his beer down on the bar as well. "This about th' Cheerleader?" Shego nodded.

"Yeah." She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "So here's the deal with Princess," she said, her tone level. "We're in one o' those fuckbuddy situations, right? I mean, she's in college, I'm a felon, all that jazz. An' neither of us really wanna date the other one, no relationship shit, right?"

Eddie nodded.

"Right," she continued, gesturing vaguely with her hands now, movements exaggerated by the alcohol. "So, we're not, like exclusive, but I kinda know she wouldn't like it if I went and got laid somewhere else, right? But then I was thinkin', look. I'm hot, right? An' I was in Aruba on a job, an' there was this cute li'l blonde thing on th' beach, so I brought her back to my hotel. I guess I felt like I needed t' prove somethin' to myself, or whatever." She folded her arms on the bar and sank down a bit, head bowed.

"But if I really wanted to prove somethin', I wouldn'a done it, I don't think."

The silence lingered for a few moments. Eddie watched Shego as she stretched out one pale arm and waved down Joe the bartender.

"'Nother whiskey." He scowled and moved off to pour the drink. Eddie finished his beer and sat back on the barstool.

"So she didn't take it well when she found out, then?" Eddie's words were a question, but the finality of his voice made it sound like a statement, and Shego glanced at him with a bitter smirk.

"Nope." Shego's whiskey arrived, and she took the opportunity to drink for a moment before responding further. "I don' think I've seen her that mad. She didn't shout or anything, she just got all cold an' silent, and she was like: 'I think you'd better leave.'" Shego shrugged miserably. "So I did." Eddie grunted and took another sip of his beer.

"So why was she mad, if you guys were jus' friends with benefits?" Eddie's voice was impassive as he drew a finger through a drop of condensation on the bar. The green woman gave him a look.

"I 'unno," she responded bitingly. "'Cause she's a competitive bitch?" Shego shook her head. "Maybe she's gotta be the best at everythin', maybe she can't share me." She took another sip of whiskey. "'S her problem anyway."

"An' yet." Eddie fiddled with his beer, smiling expectantly.

"Fuck you, Eddie," Shego said, without rancor. She glanced around out of long habit, taking in the surroundings. Check the doors, check the company, check the shadows. The late crowd was drifting in, the hardcore drinkers on a long bar crawl. Some were talking and laughing, out with friends. Others were Shego's compatriots, grim-faced. Out to put alcohol inside of them, nothing else. She turned back to Eddie, who was still grinning smugly at her. "Ahright, Dan Savage, so it's my problem too. After all, can't eat my cupcake when she's pissed at me."

"Li'l too much info, boss." Shego smirked.

"Suck it," she said. "So you've heard th' whole damn story, what d'you think?"

"You askin' fer advice, boss?" Shego paused, shoulders tensed, before nodding slowly.

"Yeah, guess I am," she said at length.

"Ahright," Eddie laughed. "Gimme a minute to think." He exhaled briefly and drew one finger through the condensation collected from his beer, leaving a smiley-face on the scarred bartop.

"So I'm just gonna say what I think," he said, "an' you can listen or not. First off, sounds t'me like y'aren't ezzactly just fuckbuddies. I mean, c'mon, she's all 'you better leave' 'cause you slept with someone else? Yeah, real no strings attached shit there."

"Well yeah, but that's th'princess though," Shego challenged. "I mean, goodie two-shoes? Yeah, she's totally not gonna have any problems with sleepin' around."

"Right," Eddie said coolly, taking a sip of his drink. "'Cept then there's you. Badass thief, ex-felon, ex-henchwoman fer some crazy meg'lomaniac, yeah. An' here you are, drinkin' yourself stupid 'cause yer girl ain't happy with you? Yeah, you really don' care." Shego scowled.

"Gotta go t'the ladies' room," she muttered, sliding off her stool with surprising grace. One hand running along the deserted bar for balance, she stalked off, lips twisted in an ugly grimace.

Eddie was probably right. It rankled her to admit it, but Kimmie probably held a torch for her. That'd be like the girl, too consumed with her own idea of what a relationship  _should_  be to simply accept what it  _was_. The Princess probably wanted her very own white picket fence, with two and a half kids, two thirds of a dog, half a cat, and an eighth of a fish.

She shoved the bathroom door open and glared at the mirror. Why did this shit have to happen to  _her_? Why did  _she_  have to attract the pretty, saccharine-sweet heroine? Why couldn't life leave her the fuck  _alone_? And why, oh  _why_  did the idea of dumping Kimmie leave such a nasty taste in her mouth? With a low growl, Shego slipped into a stall and took a seat on the moderately grungy toilet seat, mind wandering.

So: Kimmiekins had a thing for her. Obvious enough. She'd probably known it for a while, just took Eddie to sit her down and explain it to her. But then, what about her? Eddie was all, "you must secretly love her," which was all very well. Except she  _didn't_  love Kimmie.  _Of course_  she didn't love Kimmie, that'd be stupid. Oh, she  _liked_  Kimmie just fine–in bed, ideally with whipped cream and hemp rope–but love? Pfft.

Business done, Shego pushed her way out of the stall and scrubbed her hands. Damned if she'd leave without disinfectant after  _that_  toilet. So she was in a bar, drinking 'cause Kimmie was mad. So what? Kimmie'd pissed her off, and it was a better way to work off anger than messing up that pretty little face. Not that she'd want to. That pretty little face was half of why she was still working out of New York, given the lengths she had to go to dodging the NYPD these days. 'S not like she cared. If she cared, she'd be trying to "work out her problems," or some shit. Right?

Satisfied, Shego pushed the bathroom door open and slouched back to her barstool. It took her some effort not to stagger, the floor sneaking up on her as she lifted her feet, but she managed. Point of pride, and all. Not like a cat-burglar could be seen fall-down drunk in a bar, right? With only a slight effort, she climbed back onto her perch and speared Eddie with a look.

"I don't love th' Cheerleader," she said, daring him to argue. Instead he gave her a puzzled look.

"Never said y' loved her, Boss." Suddenly, he smirked. "But–but  _you_  did.  _You_  brought up love. I was just like, 'you must kinda like 'er.' But  _you're_  th' one bringin' up  _love_." He laughed. "Goddamn. Th' boss has it bad."

Shego's glare could cut glass.

"Thanks,  _Freud_ ," she said bitterly. "If I wanted a shrink, I'd have goddamn gotten one. This is New York City, after all. 'S not like they're rare."

"Hey, y' asked my 'pinion," Eddie said. "'S not my fault if you don' like what I give ya."

"Fuck you."

"I would, but the awkward wakeup is too much t' ask for."

Shego growled, and Eddie desisted. It had taken him a few years, and a few burns, but he knew when not to needle the boss anymore.

"Well, I  _don't_ ," Shego said petulantly. "Love 'er, I mean." Eddie shrugged.

"Okay." Shego's eyes narrowed, and she tried to glare at him again. It would have worked better if her eyes didn't keep losing focus.

"That was a  _accusatory_  okay," she challenged, poking Eddie's shoulder. "You're  _accusin_ ' me of loving Kimmie."

"No I wasn'," he replied innocently. "I was just sayin' okay."

"It better be  _okay_ ," Shego shot back, turning back to her empty glass. Silence fell. The rest of the bar had quieted down too, with most of the partygoers having moved on. The remaining patrons were of the quiet type, with sullen looks on their faces and a lot of empties in front of them. Joe bustled around, picking up the most egregiously large collections of glasses and shooing out the particularly inebriated.

"So what," Shego said, surprising Eddie. "Y' think Kimmie an' I care 'bout each other? You gonna tell me I need t' talk it out with 'er?" Eddie shrugged.

"Maybe. 'S not like I'm Doctor Drew or anythin'." The two laughed–Doctor Drew was Drakken's onetime alibi to his mother, a radio pop-psychologist who offered bad advice to sad people.

"Heh, wonder what the Doc'd tell me," Shego mused. "Prob'ly something 'bout how True Love shouldn' be fought or somethin'. He always was a sap."

"There y' go bringin' up love again, Boss," Eddie needled.

"Shut th' fuck up, Eddie Griggs, or I'll give y' a plasma haircut."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever, boss." He paused and fiddled with his glass before setting it down upright in front of him with an air of finality. "Listen, I gotta go soon," he said. "Errands t' run tomorrow an' stuff. But hey, you want one las' piece of advice?" Shego shrugged.

"What th' hell. Shoot."

"'Kay," he said, fishing through his pockets for his wallet. "Look, like I said, I dunno anythin' about your life or whatever, but I think y' oughtta give this thing with th' Cheerleader a chance, 'kay?"

"That's what I've been doin' for like, a year an' a half," Shego protested.

"No, y' haven't. You've been all 'we're not in a  _relationship_  'cause it'd never  _work_ ' an' blah-blah-blah. Let yerself feel somethin' for her. Don't hook up with girls atta beach in th' Caribbean. Jus' see what happens." Eddie fished out a wad of crumpled bills and put them on the bartop. Joe the bartender, in a rare display of speed, was there in an instant to deliver the bill. He pocketed the money quickly and scooped up Eddie's abandoned beer glasses in one go, showing a surprising degree of manual dexterity in his stumpy fingers.

"See ya around, boss," Eddie said, rising. Shego grunted in reply and gave a sort of half-wave. The ex-henchman snorted and brushed past her, elbowing the door open. A breeze blew in, stirring Shego's hair a bit. She glanced at her long-empty glass, then at the door. Probably enough for one night.

"Put it on m' tab, Joe," she said, rising to go before he could demand payment.

"You wanna keep drinking in here, you pay your bill!" Joe thundered as she breezed a bit unsteadily through the door. The hell with it. She'd take care of it another evening.

The night was cool. Shego drew her thin jacket tighter to herself and started walking north, towards her apartment uptown. It had evidently rained while she'd been in the bar; the streets were wet and the trees planted along the sidewalk dripped on her hair. Her mind wandered.

She'd been out of the game for two years, or thereabouts. She had enough money squirreled away to live three lifetimes in style; weekend getaways to Aruba, dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria, and a wardrobe tailored bespoke by Italians. She could live the good life, free of the fear of arrest and conviction. By all rights, she should be happy. She should be living large, luxuriating in her magnificent penthouse view of New York and partying with rock stars. It wasn't as though her name wasn't known–not after she'd saved the world. The UN decoration was still hanging on her wall. Maybe that sent the wrong message for a woman who couldn't give a damn about the UN. Anyway.

Shego wasn't doing any of those things. She drew her jacket tighter as she crossed a street, her boots splashing in one of the ubiquitous puddles. She muttered a curse: they were expensive and she liked them–getting them covered with city grime wasn't part of the plan, tonight. Instead of partying or vacationing, she was mooning over a girl who was eight years younger than her, getting drunk in a dive bar in one of the less wonderful bits of the Bronx, and getting mud on her boots.

Why? Why the  _hell_  was she doing this? Shego folded her arms crossly. She was in  _New York_. She could be doing  _anything on Earth_. So why was she drunk and morose, walking a dark street after midnight? Why was she even  _thinking_  like this?

Thinking was not Shego's strong suit. Oh, she wasn't stupid–far from it.  _I'm smarter than the Doc, for damn sure_ , she thought savagely. But she didn't generally care to think through her problems. Better to be doing something about them. Preferably punching the cause. It started to rain again, a light and steady drizzle, just hard enough to get her thoroughly wet. Not even the excitement of a true rainstorm, just miserable dampness. Damn it all. She walked faster, mind working through the clearing haze of alcohol.

It would be... unpleasant not to see Kim anymore. The girl was obnoxious, self-righteous and kind of a high-strung bitch, sure. But she was fun, she was cute, and she was kind to living things. She was affectionate and personable; fun at parties. A good conversationalist, when she wasn't being annoying. Put that way, she was a perfectly lovely girl, the sort that you'd want to take home to meet your parents.

Your parents don't deal with the crazy, jealous girl who can't share. They don't deal with the girl whose chosen strategy for winning an argument is to remind you of everything you've ever done wrong in your life, and hold it over you like some kind of pissing contest in morality. Shego shuddered as a rivulet of rainwater coursed its way down the back of her neck. She hugged herself to keep out the cold.

On the other hand, she reflected, Kim clearly cared about her. That was sort of new, and she wasn't sure what she thought about it yet. Oh, she'd been in the odd relationship, and sex was easy enough to come by. But Kim was the first one to seemingly  _care_ ; to take a genuine interest in Shego for her own sake. It was a little unnerving, really, to be so intensely adored by someone–and Eddie was right, Kim  _did_  adore her. It was pretty obvious, from the other woman's bright smiles at Shego's appearance at her door to her soft awakening caresses come morning.

Kim liked her, which meant she'd been a bit of an ass. Shego felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, recalling her nonchalant manner when she'd admitted to sleeping with a girl during her brief stay in the Caribbean. Oops. Okay, so Eddie wasn't totally wrong: Kimmie had a decent reason to be pissed.

Shego reached her corner and turned, walking halfway down the block before hurrying into the lobby of the Hotel Thirty Thirty. She shook her head slightly, the spray of droplets falling on the marble floor. Stan the night doorman nodded his greetings and Shego gave him an answering grin–no reason to be rude to the staff. With a click of bootheels, she made her way to the elevators and thumbed the up button.

With nothing to distract her while the elevator took its sweet time, Shego's thoughts drifted. Seeing Eddie had sparked memories of her days with Drakken, and while the doctor's schemes had been a bit stupid, they'd been the source of some decent adventures. The life of a thief could get boring–after all, only so many security systems, and when you'd figured out how to beat them, the adrenaline faded fast. With the Doc it had been all death rays, missions to steal some piece of explodium or an expensive whatever, and the promise of a good fight with a cute girl.

The Doc could be a dweeb, but he'd made her life interesting. The elevator arrived with a  _ding_ , and she stepped inside. Shego mashed the button marked "P"–Penthouse, since all those ill-gotten gains had to be put to use, after all–and waited while the elevator climbed its thirty-odd floors. She yawned and her ears popped. Yeah, the Doc had been a pretty good business partner. They still exchanged emails, sometimes, but he was off doing the lecture circuit. He had the fame he'd always wanted.

And what did she have? Okay, she had a penthouse condo in Brooklyn, more money than she could easily spend, and the occasional gray-market job. But there was Drakken,  _Time_ 's Man of the Year. Honorary doctorate from half of the fucking planet, and the recognition he'd always craved desperately. He was a happy man, and it showed in their infrequent communications. Well, good. More power to him. Drakken was a good guy, really.

So where'd that leave  _her_? The elevator came to a gentle stop and Shego stumbled out the door, keycard in hand. Gathering herself, she stalked down the elegant beige hallway to her room. So. Here she was, living in a nice New York hotel, piles of money, just past thirty but not telling anyone that. No need to work now, or ever. Living the good life.

Sure.

She was bored. Alcohol could sometimes have a mind-clearing effect on Shego, and tonight was one such occasion. Between her unexpected heart-to-heart with Eddie– _ugh, goin' soft there, much?_ –and Sweet Lady Whiskey, she was facing some awkward reflection tonight. Shego rammed her keycard into the slot a bit more violently than intended, and wrenched open the door. The maids had been in, clearly, since her battalion of shoes were organized. Shego shucked her jacket and yanked off her boots, casting them unceremoniously in the corner before padding into the suite's elegant living room.

Well. Nothing better to start some uncomfortable self-examination off with than more whiskey. She snagged a glass from the cupboard and poured herself a liberal three fingers of Laphroaig. A decently sized part of her recognized that all this drinking was unhealthy, and she sternly promised herself that she would examine her drinking habits– _tomorrow_. Shego flopped into the nearest chair, glass in hand, and put her feet up on the matching ottoman that was part of the room's standard  _décor_.

Where was she going? What did she want? They weren't questions that she asked herself often. Usually there was something going on in her life–leave home, make it in the underworld, steal something for Dr. D, whatever. Now, not so much. Money she had, and respect. She was free from her family. She'd achieved the goals that she'd set for herself as an angry teenager. Okay, so. Now what? She sipped from her glass, savoring the flavor that was so,  _so_  much better than the crap she'd been drinking with Eddie. Smoky. Like the smell of a campfire made from the timbers of a fucking mansion.

Why was it hitting her now? She'd been "out of work" for over two years–ever since Dr. D got his medal–and it hadn't bugged her. Okay. So, what was different now?

After the invasion, they'd basically given up crime. There wasn't much left to steal, really, since most of the world's money had gone into rebuilding. The Doc had gotten the recognition he’d always wanted, and Shego wasn't enough of an idiot to steal money that was going into bringing back running water and electricity. She  _liked_  hot showers. So she'd started getting her assets in order. What money had previously existed in a dozen shady bank accounts was laundered, a job she'd been meaning to do for a couple of years, and then invested in construction firms and a few of those green industries that the government was talking about subsidizing. It had taken about a year of careful manipulating, but she'd finally done it.

And then she'd bumped into Kimmie in Manhattan. It had been in the fall, when the younger woman was starting her sophomore year at Columbia. After a few tense minutes, Princess had proposed a truce and bought them both coffee, and they whiled away a Saturday afternoon chatting about old times.

Most people's "old times" didn't include death traps. Shego smiled. They'd hit it off once again, the camaraderie that had appeared during their occasional bouts of co-operation coming back full-force. The coffee date became two girls meeting for dinner. Then, it was Shego showing the younger woman a good time in New York–a city that could offer anything. Then sex. Many, many times. Apparently, for Kim it had morphed seamlessly into a relationship. Being honest with herself, Shego could see how that was a reasonable assumption. They did dinner regularly. They caught movies and went dancing. For her, it had always been a prelude to sex, but as she drained her glass, sobriety long gone, she could admit in the solitude of her room that the companionship was just as good.

She set her glass down on the chair's arm and bit the knuckle of her thumb, mind racing through the rather choppy sea of returned drunkenness. What if Eddie was right? The voice inside her head that asked the question was small, but insistent. It sounded like Kim. What if she liked Kimmie more than she wanted to admit?

What would that mean?

Shego exhaled in an angry huff. She prided herself on being independent. A line from a book she'd once read as a teenager ran through her head– _he was sufficient for himself_. That's what she'd always wanted to be. It had been her conscious project for over a decade. Sufficient for herself. Her own woman. Not dependent on anyone. She'd stand alone, in front, or not at all. Alone.

Alone? Was that what she wanted? The darker part of Shego's psyche extrapolated ruthlessly. Ten years on, alone: still proud of it, independent and wealthy. Twenty years on: careful investment turning stolen millions into honest billions. Thirty years on: Penthouse of a better hotel, as much control of the criminal underworld as she wanted. Kingmaker and puppeteer at sixty. You want information? Get in touch with Shego's organization. She knows Big Daddy Brotherson's secrets, the fat fuck. Sure as hell she knows yours. Forty years on. Anything she wanted at her beck and call. Small nations would pay to do business with her and her network. Crime was back, the world had moved on from its little apocalypse. Fifty years on: she was eighty. Above life-expectancy for the average American. Gray hair, feeble eyes. She runs a criminal organization in name, but really it's her lieutenants, jockeying for position. The old lady has to die sometime.

And that was the end of that story. Eventually she'd die. Okay, big fuckin' deal, so did everyone. Shego wasn't much for existential crises, but as she refilled her glass she wondered. Dead at eighty something. The only people who care are the ones who want your job. What the hell kind of life was that? Independent was a good goal–for an angry girl who wanted to get away from her brothers. Independent wasn't a life goal. It didn't get you anywhere. Shego squeezed her eyes shut and balled her hands into fists.

What the fuck was she  _doing_? What did she  _want_? The questions, uncomfortable as always, came back to needle her. She forced her eyes open–it was a stupid gesture, closing her eyes–and looked around the room. Elegant furnishings, sterile after the modern fashion. Lots of cool blues and grays, glass and brushed aluminum. This was her life.

Shego had always liked simplicity. Her rooms in Drakken's old labs had been like this–few personal mementos, as much an office as a home. Too much clutter was obnoxious. It distracted. She'd always ruthlessly discarded whatever she didn't absolutely need. It was efficient, elegant, clean.

And very, very empty. She looked again. The artwork that hung on the walls was in the modern style, reproductions of Jackson Pollock or whoever the fuck did the things with the squares. It had been provided by the hotel. A neat stack of paperwork sat on her desk, her shoes were in a pile by the door. There was a bottle of whiskey on the counter. Besides that, there wasn't anything of her to the room. The daily maid service had cleaned it all away quite efficiently, leaving no trace of Shego behind.

Since when had her life gotten this goddamn grim? She remembered quite keenly how it felt to not be worried about this crap–most of her time up until now had, in fact, been spent giving this topic almost zero thought. Why  _now_? What had changed?

Another nagging voice in her head spoke, this time–infuriatingly–with the voice of Eddie Griggs.  _Kim Possible changed. She tossed you out on your sorry ass, Boss, and now you're regretting it like a sad little girl._  Shego ground her teeth. If it actually  _had_  been Eddie saying that, she'd have socked him one in the gut. But it wasn't Eddie. It was her. Goddammit.

Shego set the glass down on the floor, barely resisting the urge to throw it at the wall. Time had been she would have. What had changed?

Easy answer, really. Kimmie had changed. Changed  _her_ , really. She bit the inside of her cheek. Damned if she wasn't going to see her drunken musings out to the end. Kimmie had  _changed her_. Like a stupid Lifetime movie. And Shego, the master thief, the most dangerous woman in the world,  _didn't care that much_. Fuck. She was honest-to-God going soft.

Shego glanced at the clock and was startled to see the time read 4:21. Not gonna be getting up early tomorrow. Screw it.

Eddie's voice from earlier drifted back, this time quoting the man himself.  _Goddamn. Th' boss has it bad._  Oh, if only he knew. Because it was true, Shego admitted bitterly. She had it bad. She missed Kim's easy smile, which had been hers just yesterday. She missed the unbelievably sweet, almost sappy gestures the the other girl made. A chocolate with green mint-goo inside of it. What the hell, Kimmie? Like I've never seen the "mint and chocolate" shit before.

Still, it had made a good present.

Shego felt her face warm, not unpleasantly, at the memories of Kim's stupid jokes. Of the Girl Who Could Do Anything, fretting over exams. Of waking up next to someone who actually bothered to stay for breakfast.

How long would Kim stay, she wondered. For breakfast? For a year? Ten? Fifty? Would Kim stick around after the glamor of dating a millionaire thief wore off? Would she stay once she was trying to get a career?

Breakfast would be an okay place to start.

 


End file.
